<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>You Can Rest Now, Lady Macbeth by innertimetraveldetective</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26820265">You Can Rest Now, Lady Macbeth</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/innertimetraveldetective/pseuds/innertimetraveldetective'>innertimetraveldetective</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Blood and Gore, Bobbi/ daisy can be ignored, Dark, Forgot to tag this as angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, It's nothing like what I normally write, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, implied suicidal intention, its angst, please don't read this if blood triggers you, romance definitely not a main feature to this</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:07:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,411</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26820265</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/innertimetraveldetective/pseuds/innertimetraveldetective</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A mission breaks Daisy- Bobbi, Jemma and May are there to pick up the pieces.</p><p>CWs- blood, self-harm, implied suicidal intentions</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bobbi Morse &amp; Skye | Daisy Johnson, Bobbi Morse/Skye | Daisy Johnson, Jemma Simmons &amp; Skye | Daisy Johnson, Melinda May &amp; Skye | Daisy Johnson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>107</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>You Can Rest Now, Lady Macbeth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She could still feel it, smell it, practically taste it. Their blood, the deep, glinting crimson of it, the sickly, overwhelming taste of iron and lives lost that kept washing over her. She could see them, all of them, feel their cries echoing deeply in her chest, ripping her apart like they’d been; they would forever live on the back of her eyelids, haunting her whenever she tried to rest. She couldn’t rest again, not when they couldn’t. How was that fair? How was any of this fair, that she got to walk out of there alive and they stayed there to die, to be torn apart, their blood splattering the walls, the stench of bodies strong in the air. She had to get it off her, their blood. She couldn’t have that many lives on her conscience.</p><p>She started unbuckling the straps on her seat, nausea rising in her chest as she saw her hands, blood and grime covering them. She could feel it crisp on her face, sinking into her skin, all those she couldn’t save becoming entwined with her. She tried to stand up but collapsed back into her chair, her legs weak under her.</p><p>“Daisy? Hey, Daisy, what you doing?” she brushed them off. They couldn’t understand, none of them could. She couldn’t live like this, with blood on her hands, forever etched into her. She tried to stand again, to get out, to get them off her, to free herself, but found two hands resting on her knees. They weren’t hers, they were pale, clean, free of guilt.</p><p>“Daisy, can you look at me?” she lifted her eyes from her hands to meet Bobbi’s brown eyes, concern playing behind them. Her face was so clean, so white, so bloodless, free, innocent of crimes unspeakable that Daisy herself had witnessed. She looked back down to Bobbi’s hands, brushing them off her knees and standing with more success this time. She needed it off her, them, their blood, their sweat, their dirt. How could they ever truly be gone as long as she lived? They didn’t have to suffer anymore, the blood would be washed off her hands, her conscience would be washed of their lives. Bobbi was saying something, probably trying to stop her. She didn’t understand, she wasn’t there, she’d never have to hear their cries, to smell their blood, to see their faces, so broken. She’d be there for the rest of her life, part of her forever to be trapped in that moment, forever alone with them, every bit of their pain forever to torment her. They wouldn’t rest until she was dead, so why should she be allowed to live?</p><p>“Daisy? I need you to sit down, please.” A cautious voice came from behind her. She was Daisy, truly her parents’ daughter, truly a monster.</p><p>“I need to go.” She felt hands on her, trying to take her, trying to stop her from saving them. She quaked them away from her, who were they to try to stop her? She’d seen things they couldn’t imagine, horrors that no human being should ever have to witness.</p><p>“Daisy, stop.” There was more urgency in their voices this time. She whipped around to look at them, Jemma unconscious on the floor, Bobbi and May standing opposite her, Bobbi with an ICER trained steadily on Daisy. She chuckled dryly.</p><p>“Go on then. I’m a monster, that’s what those are for, right? Why even bother with the ICER? They won’t rest until I’m dead, why not kill me?” She deadpanned, tears breaking from her eyes, running down her face. Bobbi couldn’t stand this. She couldn’t watch Daisy do this to herself. She took a careful step towards the broken woman before her, the blood stained, the crying, the strong, the weak, her Skye-Daisy-Quake before her, and she ICED her, catching her limp body as she fell, laying her down to rest, wiping her tears from her face, planting a soft kiss on her forehead.</p><hr/><p>She woke up to Bobbi carrying her, shield agents everywhere, a deafening symphony of questions and condolences running over her head, piercing her skull. Was this her future? Her every waking moment followed by the consequences of her mistakes? She tried to leap out of Bobbi’s arms, to go, to run, to stop this pain, their pain. She could still feel them, all of them.</p><p>“Shh, Zee. You’re okay, we’re going to my bunk.” She whimpered, burying her head in Bobbi’s chest. She just wanted them to stop, she wanted them to go, to get out of her head, to leave her be, to let her rest. Instead they clawed at her eyes, screaming in her ears, blood pouring from their eyes, their mouths, impossibly deep cuts scattered over their skeletal bodies. Why hadn’t they let her die?</p><p>Bobbi was setting her down on her bed, and then she was gone. She reached out, wanting her back, wanting to be held, wanting to hide in her arms, for her to chase them all away.</p><p>“Give me a second, Zee.” Water was running in the bathroom, and Bobbi was back.</p><p>“Do you want help washing or are you okay?” Bobbi asked, her voice soft, loving. Daisy didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve any of this: Bobbi, her kindness, her gentleness. She shouldn’t even be alive, not at that cost, not at the cost of all those lives.</p><p>“I’m fine.” she said. Her voice was hoarse, from the tears or the ICER. Bobbi handed her a towel, with promises that she was right outside if she was needed.</p><p>She stepped into the shower, hot water beating down on her back. She tipped her hair back under the shower head, blood and dirt running down her body. She turned around, rinsing her face of the memories, the water hot against her delicate skin. She rinsed her hands, scrubbing at them, scratching them, rubbing them raw. The feeling of the blood was still there, lingering, overwhelming her senses. She scratched harder, patchy, raw skin emerging. It was still there, all of them, all those people, their blood staining her forever, to remain on her skin for eternity, never releasing her of their grasp. She began to cry, tears of frustration falling onto her face, the weight of the blood dragging her down. She sat on the floor of the shower, tucked protectively into a ball, the sting of her hands and the texture of the blood making her dizzy. If she stayed still maybe they wouldn’t find her, if she kept scrubbing maybe they’d let her go.</p><p>There were hands, hands all over her, voices screaming questions she couldn’t answer. Had to get away. She clawed herself away from their grasp, struggling blindly against them, bundling herself tighter into the corner. The roaring of the water subsided, her heartbeat replacing it with daunting echoes in her ears. She had to keep scratching. She had to get them off her. Gentle hands took hers. She looked up to Bobbi crouched before her holding her hands.</p><p>“Hey, rockstar,” Bobbi said gently, her voice soothing, a note of sadness behind it.</p><p>“They won’t go away.” Daisy sobbed, gasping between words. Bobbi wrapped her in a towel. It was white and fluffy, far nicer than any of her own. It felt nice against her raw skin, like a hug.</p><p>“I know, Zee.” Daisy looked up to her with pleading bloodshot eyes.</p><p>“Make them go away, Bobbi. Please make them go away.” Daisy begged with her. Bobbi wanted nothing more than to make them go away, to take the cries in Daisy’s head and hush them, wanted nothing more than for her to be at peace, for her to rest. She sat next to her and held her as she sobbed, murmuring words of comfort, wishing with all she was that she could do more, be more for her. She rubbed her back, kissing her forehead as her sobs racked her chest, eventually hollowing out to just sniffles.</p><p>“They won’t go away.”</p><p>“I’m here, I’ve got you.”</p><hr/><p>Daisy wanted tea. She’d wanted tea all day, but she didn’t want to bother Bobbi with it, and she definitely didn’t want to leave her bunk during the day, not with agents running all over the place. Obviously, the logical decision in this scenario was to wait up until 4am when no sane person was awake and sneak to the kitchen to make some. ‘Sneak’ was the wrong word. It wasn’t like she wasn’t allowed to leave, in fact Bobbi had been encouraging it. She just didn’t want to have to face people, their harsh judgement, or worse, their admiration. It had been a couple of days since the… incident, as Bobbi put it. She’d stayed in her bunk, other than a mandatory checkup with Jemma.</p><p>Blood still covered her hands, and her voice seemed to have escaped her. She was a shell, she’d been hollowed out and she couldn’t bear it. She wanted to stop, she wanted to tear Bobbi’s stupid gloves off and scratch her hands raw, scratch the feeling off them, the feeling of the dried blood. She wanted to submerge her head under water, until she couldn’t hear anymore, because then maybe, just mabe, the screaming might stop. Sometimes Bobbi would find her crying, clawing at her face, quakes rocking the room. She’d try to tell her, try to reason with her, explain herself, but no words would come out, just scared, whimpered noises. Bobbi would bundle her up in her duvet, tell her she was there, kiss her forehead. She couldn’t seem to understand that maybe Bobbi was there, but Daisy might never be again, not properly, forever caught in limbo between now and then.</p><p>She made her way to the kitchen, an oversized shield jumper hanging low over her hands, black shorts hidden underneath it. She was supposed to wear her gloves, but they itched, and she should be able to feel this, this pain, this guilt, their blood. She turned the corner and walked into the kitchen, relieved to find it empty, and went to fill the kettle up. Some water splashed on her hand and she gagged, dropping the kettle, cracking a floor tile. Blood was dripping all over her hand, it was wet, fresh, it smelt thick, overwhelmingly rich. She screamed, scrubbing at her hands, scratching her forearms desperately, trying to rid herself of the evidence of what had happened, trying to get them off her, to save them, to save herself.</p><p>“Daisy?” She turned sharply to face May. She was shaking, tears rolling fast down her cheeks.</p><p>“What’s going on?” May asked. Daisy looked back down to her hands, blood now drying fast, the familiar feeling of old blood under her nails making her feel sick. She showed them to May, holding them out to her. She walked over, taking Daisy’s hands in hers.</p><p>“They’re okay, Daisy. They’re clean, look.” That was wrong. She could see the blood on the floor, on her hands, on May’s. She shook her head and went back to scratching them under the tap. May took her hands and dried them on a tea towel, wiping at them until they were soft again, dry from water, or blood.</p><p>“There, now look. All better.” Daisy nodded and sniffled.</p><p>“I… I broke the kettle.” She said hoarsely.</p><p>“That’s okay, I have one in my bunk you can use.” May told her calmly, making a mental note to get Coulson to buy a new one. She kept hold of one of Daisy’s hands, her other arm wrapped around her protectively. This was the first time she’d seen her since Bobbi had ICED her. She was different; she’d seen Daisy cry before, she’d been there for her through so much- Ward’s betrayal, the loss of her parents, Lincoln's death. She’d never seen her this empty, this broken, this scared. She watched as her hands shook, patches of raw skin rubbing against her sleeves. She cleaned her hands gently, softly dabbing at the bloody patches with a cloth, wrapping them up in bandages, holding her until she fell back to sleep. She looked so much younger when she slept. Not young like Skye was. Skye was pure, innocent, she hadn’t seen what shield would make you into. The girl sleeping before her had. She’d seen far too much suffering, far too much pain for one so young to bear, and she was strong in spite of it.</p><hr/><p>It had been a week. Blood still stained her hands. Sometimes May could wipe it away, but it would always come back, when her hands would get wet, or she could smell blood, or if she dreamed about it. She wasn’t allowed in the labs anymore, Jemma had found her going at her hands with a scalpel. The blood had come back, but it was disgustingly fresh, she could smell it, taste it, hear it. It had consumed her, she drowned in it. Jemma had taken her hands, clouds dancing in her eyes. She sat her on the bench, all tender and gentle and soft. She’d bandaged her hands up again, silent as she cleaned Daisy’s cuts. She’d helped her down onto the floor, kissing her cheek gently before Bobbi had turned up to take her back. Daisy wasn’t allowed in the labs anymore.</p><p>Everyone had started avoiding her, apart from Bobbi, Jemma and May. May told her it was because they were worried about her, but Daisy knew the truth. They could see her, the true her, the blood stained monster she’d become, a meer echo of the woman she’d been before.</p><p>Bobbi kept telling her that she’d be okay. She didn’t think she could ever be okay again, not really. Maybe this was what would break her, after all the insane crap they’d gone through, this was what would do it. Jemma told her to look at May, that this was like Bahrain, that Daisy would be okay. She wished everyone would stop saying that, that she’d be okay. How could she be, after what she saw, after what happened because of her? She couldn’t see anymore, everything passed like a blur. She could hear the lights and see sound; it would break her, but it wasn’t like it was before. Okay seemed too far away. Her arms were red, irritated, sore, her stomach ached, her teeth hurt, her voice was broken. How could she be okay?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is kinda out of my comfort zone, so comments are more than welcome!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>